<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>you construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men by sulfuric</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250249">you construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulfuric/pseuds/sulfuric'>sulfuric</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dimension 20 (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roommates, oh cody night angel walsh the things i google for you, seriously im getting crunchyroll ads now, way too many naruto references for an author thats never seen anime in their life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:33:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,068</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulfuric/pseuds/sulfuric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, Pete says, “Hey, can I braid your hair?” and it’s all downhill from there.</p><p>(or: two sane guys doing normal roommate things and not being weird about it, not even a little bit.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pete Conlan | Pete the Plug/Cody Walsh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>252</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. braid me baby 1 more time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from barbara kruger’s gorgeous and iconic 1981 piece which you can see <a href="https://collections.mfa.org/objects/35582">here!</a></p><p>i have spent so many weeks wrestling these words out of my stupid little brain and it would not have happened without the most excellent <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/astuary/profile">astuary!</a> thank u lauren for having the same brain disease as me. i wouldn’t be half the idiot i am without u. and psst check out <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28911003">their fic</a> for maximum pete/cody tomfoolery!!!</p><p>first tuc fic here we go babey! hope yall enjoy! 💛</p><p>edit: the lovely fidgetbot on tumblr made some BEAUTIFUL art for this fic which you can see and reblog <a href="https://fidgetbot.tumblr.com/post/642858832292462593/wanted-to-do-this-too-he-mutters-running-his">here</a>! 🥰</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>cody watches some naruto, gets his hair braided, yearns (a lot), and has a mild gender crisis!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Cody is definitely</span>
  <em>
    <span> not </span>
  </em>
  <span>waiting for the sound of the keys fiddling with the lock when the clock rolls around to 9:00pm, and he definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>scramble to sit up like a normal person with a normal spine as he hears the lock finally click open. He also doesn’t momentarily mute the TV to listen for the annoyed sigh following the soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>woosh </span>
  </em>
  <span>the door swinging open a second later. He fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Whatever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete moved in two months ago. In that time, Cody’s heard him get the lock on the first try </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> three times. When Cody first moved to New York, his parents spent a lot of time warning him about break-ins and made him promise to make sure he’d get a place with a good, thick door. Which was </span>
  <em>
    <span>dumb </span>
  </em>
  <span>because Cody had eight swords already, obviously he could just defend himself. And hey, maybe he wasn’t on speaking terms with his first couple roommates because they were too fucking lame to be chill about seeing a dope ass katana in their face first thing when they came home from a late shift, or like, with a hookup, but that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>problem. Most people would consider built-in home security a perk, actually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He’s gotta take up the whole scythe in the living room thing with Nasir, again.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, it’s a little bit different. Now, when Cody hears someone messing with the lock like they’re the world’s worst home intruder, the only swords involved are the ones, like, stabbing his heart. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey man,” Cody says coolly—disinterested, even, eyes carefully set on the TV instead of staring at Pete all eager like some sort of prep—as soon as he rounds the corner into the living room, floor creaking familiarly underneath his stupid mismatched socks. “How was work or whatever?”    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete just groans in response, dropping his bag at the base of the TV stand and swiftly crossing the space to collapse on the other side of the couch. Cody counts to three in his head—</span>
  <em>
    <span>one fuck gladiator, two fuck gladiator, three fuck gladiator—</span>
  </em>
  <span>and allows himself to look. Pete is curled in on himself like a fucking, armadillo or something, with his arms wrapped underneath his legs, feet hanging of the edge of the cushion his face is pressed into, eyes shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, uh—you good, bro?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmmmmmph.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody frowns. Pete looks, like, legit sad. He puts down his monster. “Do you, like. Uh, do you want me to come to like, a meeting with you?” At this Pete opens one eye, eyebrows knitting together as he pouts. Cody blanches. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, fuck, why the fuck did you say that that’s so fucking rude you’re not like his fucking sponsor or whatever you can’t just—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s really nice,” Pete says then, very softly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“ But uh, no, it’s not—just a long day at work. Can I just watch with you?” He tilts his chin over to the TV where Netflix is counting down the seconds until the next episode of Naruto.</span>
</p><p><span>“Oh, yeah. Of course, dude.” He shrugs nonchalantly but Cody knows that there is no amount of </span><em><span>dudes </span></em><span>or </span><em><span>bros </span></em><span>or </span><em><span>mans </span></em><span>he can throw into his speech to offset the damning</span> <span>thud of his heartbeat in his ears when Pete smiles around a </span><em><span>thanks, </span></em><span>small and soft.</span></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>It’s not like Cody hasn’t had crushes before. It’s not like he hasn’t dated people before, either. But here’s the thing—Cody has (or </span><em><span>had, </span></em><span>as of a few short months ago)</span> <span>been a Hot Topic manager for seven years. And he’s been a goth for even longer. These are worlds he is comfortable in. But now, the mall is fucking closed and magic is fucking real and goths are an endangered fucking species, apparently, and he is, in short, out of his goddamned element. He’s out of his league, if you will. Well, if we’re being completely accurate—</span></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pete </span>
  </em>
  <span>is out of his league. The rest of this—sitting at home watching anime and ingesting nothing but Monster and Takis? That is very much in Cody’s league. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>owns </span>
  </em>
  <span>that league. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if Cody had dated people that weren’t also mall goths before, Pete would still be out of his league. For one, he’s the Vox fucking Phantasma of New York, which is honestly way cooler than being the Jersey Devil, just by virtue of power alone. Cody’s got him beat in aesthetics, sure, but Pete is still light years ahead in everything else, including but not limited to: sick battle maneuvers; cooking; knowing what cleaning product to use where; actually having the motivation to do said cooking and use said cleaning product; knowing what the fuck is going on with the magic world; being, like, really fucking hot and having a cohesive look that’s not lame even if it is sort of prep; having a regular sleep schedule; being, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice </span>
  </em>
  <span>to people, even when they’re shitheads; and </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking really fucking cute when he’s curled up on the couch watching anime. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cody watches from the corner of his eye as Pete struggles to get a blanket onto himself. It really and truly does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to unfold, fleece panels sticking firmly together as Pete flaps it around uselessly, still curled into the cushion. Cody forces himself to look forward and not think about how domestic, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy</span>
  </em>
  <span> it would be to just reach over and drape the blanket across Pete himself, letting his hands linger as he smooths it over his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shivers just at the thought of touching Pete—not even in a horny way, just, like. Contact. Touching another human. A human that is Pete. With his hand, softly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovingly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fucking christ. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He doesn’t call on Bazathrax now (he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to do that song and dance while Pete is sitting three feet away) but he makes a note to ask him tomorrow if he can grant Cody a, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>remove feelings </span>
  </em>
  <span>spell or something like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete manages to sit up not too long after he gets the blanket on himself properly, and half an episode after that he speaks up for the first time since asking if he could watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s like, Sasuke, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not Sasuke. It’s Itachi, which normally would be a rookie mistake, (and one that Cody would have no hesitation roasting him for) but—Pete doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch </span>
  </em>
  <span>anime. Just last week he’d given Cody a blank stare when he told Pete that a possessed stock broker’s ass they kicked had total Vegeta energy. So, honestly? It’s pretty fucking cool that Pete even knows Sasuke is a Naruto character at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that one’s Itachi.” Pete frowns at that, so Cody quickly adds, “but he’s Sasuke’s brother, so you were close. They look pretty similar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete hums. “Oh. Okay. Well, what’s his deal?”</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s his </span>
  <em>
    <span>deal?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah! Like, what’s he all about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody takes the glint of challenge in Pete’s eye as his cue to explain, </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoroughly.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It takes him until the end of the episode to get through just the backstory that brings them up to where they’re watching, but Pete never interrupts or lets his attention sway. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>are you still watching? </span>
  </em>
  <span>prompt pops up but neither of them make a move to click away because Pete just keeps asking more questions, and, like, actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>listens </span>
  </em>
  <span>to what Cody’s telling him instead of just nodding and trying to change the topic like those poser creeps that always came into his Hot Topic just to flirt with the younger cashiers. No way—in this metaphor Pete is the dude that sorts through the pins to find all the good ones, and lets Cody talk his ear off about the new shipment of Nightmare Before Christmas merch all the while. And he’s asking </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>questions too, not just boring shit you can look up on wikipedia or whatever. </span>
</p><p><span>Once he’s caught up to speed, Pete urges him to play the next episode so he can see what happens next, truly invested. Cody feels intoxicated from the attention of it all, like Pete just picked him off the high school gym wall and asked him to dance. He feels… </span><em><span>understood, </span></em><span>in a way that’s not entirely foreign to him but still thrilling in its unfamiliarity. It makes him want to get up off the couch and run to Uncommon Knowledge and read every single book in the store just so that he might know Pete the tiniest bit better for it (and to find out what made him sad today, then beat the shit out of it). Except then he’d have to, well, actually </span><em><span>get up </span></em><span>and </span><em><span>leave </span></em><span>and he doesn’t want to do that if Pete is still here beside him, so for now he’ll settle for holding the feeling in his chest, quietly. He sits with it as Pete gasps</span><b>, </b><span>pulling his knees in and resting his chin on top, fully captured by the episode as it plays out. Cody feels what is probably an inappropriate amount of pride swell inside him—like, </span><em><span>fuck, </span></em><span>he’s not </span><em><span>responsible </span></em><span>for Pete’s awe right now; it’s not like he’s the legendary Masashi Kishimoto or anything—but he lets it wash over him anyway as the epic sounds of Yasuharu Takanashi play</span> <span>in the background.</span></p><p>
  <span>Then, Pete says, “Hey, can I braid your hair?” and it’s all downhill from there. Cody feels his blood pressure plummet then skyrocket again, life just about flashing before his eyes at the merest, most peripheral glancing thought of Pete putting his hands into his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>No fucking way no </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>way that’s fucking gay and I can’t fucking handle it I can’t even remember the last time another person touched me so I would probably be really fucking weird about it anyway especially because I have a fucking crush on you or whatever and like also my hair would probably be really bad to braid and then you’ll think I’m even lamer than you probably already do and then I’ll get all sad and shit and probably mess stuff up more or piss off people or whatever and I’ve been doing so good since I met you and the other magic people and I don’t want you to hate me so like no fucking way please don’t braid my hair dude, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it comes out more like, “Yeah, sure, whatever dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. At least he got the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dude </span>
  </em>
  <span>part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweet,” Pete says, swiftly ushering Cody further into his internal crisis with a chilled out, “Can you sit on the floor? It’ll be easier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that he’s helpless to do anything but fulfill the request, slinking onto the hardwood as Pete bounces—fucking, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bounces, </span>
  </em>
  <span>god Cody is so beyond screwed—to the middle of the couch to sit behind him, crossing his legs neatly. “You have really nice hair,” he remarks as he runs his fucking hands through it like it’s nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody is </span>
  <em>
    <span>profoundly </span>
  </em>
  <span>grateful that Pete can’t see the involuntary flutter of his eyelids as fingernails rake over his scalp, goosebumps prickling all over his skin in a full-body shudder he just barely manages to suppress. “Yeah, it’s whatever. Th-thanks, I guess.” He thinks he hears a soft, short exhale from above, and an image of Pete smirking enters his mind on its own accord. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete begins to run his hands through his hair in earnest, now, detangling. Every time his fingers catch on a knot Cody finds himself twitching involuntarily, deeply and fully aware of each and every square millimetre on his head. He tries his best not to, like, make sounds about it, his brain firing full blast on whatever fucking chemical makes you feel like you’re gonna throw up through your skin. It’s not entirely unlike that time he made a triple americano with monster instead of water that time he and his college roommate stayed up to put together a last minute cosplay for Comic Con—maybe now with a little less urge to cry and a lot more bisexuality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(The barista at the night owl café down the street from their dorm hadn’t even given him a second look when he’d asked for just a triple espresso at two in the morning. He remembers thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking New York, man! </span>
  </em>
  <span>and that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>he found out there was like, actual magic and shit.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete finishes brushing and Cody starts to think that </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’ll be able to handle this, but then it gets even worse. “Dude, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>gotta </span>
  </em>
  <span>stop squirming,” he says, knees bumping into Cody’s back as he unfolds his legs and plants his feet on the floor, </span>
  <em>
    <span>squeezing Cody’s fucking shoulders between his fucking knees. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I’m starting for real now,” he mutters, sectioning off a portion of hair at the edge of where the shaved part begins with a quick little scratch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody coughs out of a sigh, Pete’s leg flexing against his shoulder as he violently whips his arm up to his face to cover the sound. “Uh, shit, yeah, sorry. I’m—I’ve never, like, done this before,” he admits quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay. Just—just try to relax. You’re like, super tense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Pete repeats, softer than Cody was expecting, just as his fingers sweep over his hairline to grab another piece, smaller than the first time. “Let me know if I’m hurting you, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not,” he says, way too fast. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. Fucking homo. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Pete says, weaving the pieces together with what feels like, to Cody, great ease. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why is he so good at everything? Maybe being a like, dream god or whatever makes you good at hair braiding, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” he starts again, pulling Cody out of his thoughts, “I’ve always kinda wanted to dye my hair. Yours looks really cool when it’s braided with the black.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, it’s fuckin’ sick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Pete laugh under his breath again, and bites back the </span>
  <em>
    <span>I could dye your hair if you want </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s sitting under his tongue as Pete falls silent again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be weird about it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself as he sighs silently when Pete pulls the strands tight by his temple. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be weird about it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself as he leans back ever so slightly into the touch, Pete’s leg hair tickling the sides of his arms as he melts into the floor, just a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be weird about it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself as he closes his eyes—he’s seen this episode at least eight times and he has all the dialogue memorized anyway so it’s okay—and imagines Pete twisting his hair back tight and out of the way before a fight. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be weird about it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself as he thinks about, like, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>slashing </span>
  </em>
  <span>the shit out of a gladiator drone as Pete magics it into even smaller pieces and then turns to him, brushing a loose strand behind his ear and saying something like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, I guess I’m not that good at braiding hair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be weird about it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself as he imagines responding, all suave and shit, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, you definitely need more practice. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thinks about making Pete blush, mid-battle, like he’s done to Cody so many times.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Don’t be weird about it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself as he imagines going home, bruised and bloody and fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausted, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and having Pete grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close, pushing his hair out of the way as he presses his lips to Cody’s, desperate and wanting. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be weird about it, and fucking christ, don’t think about </span>
  </em>
  <span>that, he tells himself as he brazenly ignores his own pleading and thinks about stumbling up to the attic with no less than two points of contact the whole time, tripping over tangled feet and giggling through bruised lips as they fall onto the sheets and Pete’s hands once again make their way into Cody’s hair and </span>
  <em>
    <span>pull—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, you’re all done, Night Angel.” Real Pete pats his shoulder and retracts his legs from Cody’s sides, crossing them up on the couch again. “Go look in the mirror. I did a bomb-ass job, honestly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody, in this moment, is so internally manic that he is barely tethered to the concept of space and time so he simply does as he’s asked without comment or challenge, just shuffling quietly to the bathroom with the vague knowledge that Pete is following behind him excitedly. The harsh fluorescence succeeds in both snapping him back to the present reality and making his eyes fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>sting, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so it takes him a second to register the image in the mirror as himself. But when he does—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, I look, like,</span>
  <em>
    <span> pretty.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s the first thing that comes tumbling out of his mouth, filter decimated by the pure shock of seeing the way his hair is folded back out of his face, ribbon of electric blue running through it like a signature. He doesn't normally see much of the left side of his face, but he looks—he looks pretty. “I look legit pretty,” he says again, just to drive the point home, and Pete titters excitedly on the balls of his feet, leaning up against the doorframe with a massive smile on his face. They meet eyes in the mirror before Cody has to look away, red rising on his cheeks and giving him away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pretty </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t something he’s ever considered himself, and it isn’t something he’s ever considered </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting </span>
  </em>
  <span>to describe himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pretty </span>
  </em>
  <span>is for preps. Cody is not a fucking prep, but god, maybe he’s pretty? </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is super gender, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his mind supplies then, once again of its own accord and once again very unhelpfully, a phrase from Pete’s vocabulary that Cody’s heard him say a handful of times before, mostly under his breath or behind the counter to Zee while he’s scoping the meagre manga section at Uncommon Knowledge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody lets his eyes drift back up to meet his own gaze in the mirror again, annoyance at the persisting blush falling into background noise at the confirmation of </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, gender, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s sounding off front and centre. Interesting. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Interesting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re legit pretty, man,” Pete says then. And it’s not—Cody nearly tells him to fuck off, but it’s not teasing, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s fucking weird that you would say you’re pretty. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>encouraging, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and with a kindness that is so benign (so wholeheartedly benign, save for what is </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>the tiniest glimmer of self-recognition and mischief in Pete’s eyes, which is something that Cody will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be unpacking tonight, or anytime soon for that matter) that he nearly has to hold onto the sink just to stay standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he chokes out, cringing internally at how pained it sounds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. God, fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He decides in that moment that he needs to crush another monster to cope with all of this—and mutters as much when he breezes past Pete outside the bathroom—but of course that backfires, because—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, it’s like, midnight. You’re not—I’m not letting you have another monster. Let me make you some tea instead.” Cody doesn’t even have time to scoff and roll his eyes (and then, after another carefully timed five seconds, begrudgingly accept with the guise of annoyance even though he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>thrilled, </span>
  </em>
  <span>heart fluttering at the kindness of it) before Pete is padding over the creaky floors and flipping on the kitchen lights, buzzing low and far too bright for how exposed Cody feels right now, no hair to push over his face. But still, he is defenseless to do anything but pause the TV and quietly follow Pete into the kitchen, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes it doesn’t give him away when Pete holds up a mug that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>World’s Best Grandpa </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the smile he was biting back slips through his teeth. But if it does, Pete doesn’t say anything about it before he turns and gets to work. Cody leans against the counter and watches as Pete bops his head slightly as he flips on the kettle and pulls a box of tea out of the cabinet. There’s no music playing or anything—Cody stops for a second to listen, just to make sure he’s not like, losing his hearing or some shit—but Pete continues to subtly groove through his task anyway, shoulders joining his nodding in a rhythmic little shimmy, so small that Cody might not even notice he was doing it if he wasn’t acutely zeroed in on, like, everything Pete does and says.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This continues to be a problem, because then Cody’s brain goes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey, don’t make it weird, but what if you guys, like, slow danced in this kitchen like a fucking, a </span>
  </em>
  <span>couple,</span>
  <em>
    <span> like in one of those stupid fucking romance movies? </span>
  </em>
  <span>And he doesn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how to slow dance but that doesn’t stop him from imagining it anyway, Pete leading him around the kitchen to one of those lame soft rock songs he’s always singing along to in the shower in the mornings. He can nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>their hands clasped together, pulses thrumming in time as they sway aimlessly over the linoleum. The tempo of the song wouldn’t even matter—they’d just be in their own little world, breathing together in whatever time signature they so pleased. Maybe they’d inch closer and closer until they could lean their foreheads together, breath mixing in the ever-shrinking space between their lips, almost magnetic. And then, finally—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Cody snaps to attention as Pete blinks at him expectantly, tail end of a question Cody most certainly did not hear hanging in the air. He glances down at the mug in Pete’s hands, held out like an offering, then to the milk on the counter.</span>
</p><p><span>“No, milk is for wimps,” he says, taking a stab at what he thinks Pete’s question might have been. He would have seen the confusion on Pete’s face and heard his quiet </span><em><span>That’s not what I… </span></em><span>if he wasn’t so busy burying his face into the mug, hiding the blush he’s sure is lingering on his cheeks as he goes to take a sip. One downside to being, like, Dracula pale,</span> <span>is that his stupid face gets stupid red stupid easily. And okay, sue him, maybe he blushes just imagining stupid shit like that. He’s a </span><em><span>romantic, </span></em><span>okay. And if that’s—</span><em><span>oh, jesus FUCK.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>“Cody!” Pete shouts his name just as a splash of tea goes spilling over Cody’s mug, entire body jerking at the contact with freshly boiled water. Pete’s entire face contorts, a cartoonish mosaic of concern. “I said it was too hot so you should give it a minute,” he whines softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody shakes his head, pained. “S’fine,” he lies, and wills himself not to scream, “Jersey Devil powers. I, uh, it doesn’t affect me.” He takes another sip to prove it, the tip of his tongue immediately going sandpapery and numb as the liquid—which, even in his now limited tasting abilities, he will admit </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>pretty good—scorches down his throat. He urges his lips into a smile and says, “Yummy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” It sounds like Pete’s trying to hold back a laugh, but the pleasantly surprised look on his face is genuine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody swallows, throat pulsing with pain. “Uh, yeah, it’s—it’s good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete sighs deeply, laugh easing out of him and dissolving into something more reserved. “Good. That’s—that’s good. I’m glad your powers keep you, uh. Safe,” he finishes, sheepish.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Uh, thanks,” Cody croaks out. He’s definitely going to have to call Kingston tomorrow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey man, I know I’m like annoying and new here still but do you think you can take some time out of your very busy day being both the Vox Populi and a nurse to heal my burnt tongue? Yeah, no, I’m fine, I was just being gay for your like cosmic counterpart or whatever and poured a mug of boiling liquid into my mouth. Oh, you won’t heal me because I’m pathetic? Understandable, have a nice day.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“—episode?” God, Cody has to stop letting his brain go off on its own. Maybe there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hold attention </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop thoughts </span>
  </em>
  <span>spell. He blinks and Pete starts again, cluing in. “I asked if you wanna finish the episode? It’s kind of late but I could probably stay up a little longer if there’s not too much left. I’m kinda invested, now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody tears his eyes away from Pete’s and squints at the TV. “Oh, yeah, this episode is almost done. Like ten minutes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know that just from one frame?” The </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, that’s impressive </span>
  </em>
  <span>goes unspoken but it is more than evident in Pete’s voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries not to be smug about it. “I’ve seen Naruto like, at least ten times all the way through.” Okay, maybe Pete’s still out of his league, but Cody is feeling pretty fucking cool in this moment, watching Pete’s eyebrows raise as he takes a sip of his tea, humming appreciatively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna finish the episode now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete sits down decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the opposite side of the couch from Cody, like before, but in the middle, so close Cody can feel the couch dipping beside him whenever his roommate shifts. It’s an agonizing, very long ten minutes, and by the time the credits roll Cody is nearly sure that this is the least amount of attention he’s ever paid to a Naruto episode. He finds his hands floating up to his head every few seconds or so, fingers gingerly pressing into the divots of the braid all by themselves. He doesn’t want to mess up Pete’s hard work, but he can’t stop himself from checking that it’s still there—that there’s evidence Pete’s hands were on him, that something so beautiful and intricate was made from hair growing out of Cody’s own head. He wonders if Pete’s hand was in the exact same place as Cody’s is now. It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>un</span>
  </em>
  <span>likely. And that—have they held hands now, technically? If there’s an alternate universe where Pete started braiding Cody’s hair twenty minutes later, is he holding that Pete’s hand </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He should totally figure out a way to ask JJ about alternate universes, next time they see him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for letting me watch with you.” Pete turns to Cody as the screen falls to black, eyes fixed on the cushion between them. “It was fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, dude. Thanks for the tea, and the, uh—” he gestures vaguely to his hair, still pulled back in the braid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete nods eagerly, smiling at his handiwork, still intact. “Yeah, of course. Oh—” He reaches a hand up, hesitating slightly before he brushes his fingers over Cody’s hairline, softly tucking a stray piece behind his ear. “You got a… here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Guess you need more practice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cody’s brain supplies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not fucking helpful, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he responds, swallowing thickly at the contact of Pete’s hand travelling down his ear and settling on his jaw, featherlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you go,” Pete finishes, hair secured safely away from Cody’s face. But he doesn’t move his hand, and time grinds to a halt in which Cody finds himself thinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait wait holy fuck holy shit wait no way? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Their eyes are locked, unmoving from each other as Pete’s lips fall open, just barely, and then Cody feels the couch shift under their weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, well, I should be getting to bed,” Pete says, pulling his hand back and standing abruptly, “Have uh, have a good night!” He does not meet Cody’s gaze as he speaks or as he reaches down to grab his mug from the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of them freeze, just for a second, before Cody responds. “Yeah, of course, uh, goodnight dude.” And then Pete is beelining it for the stairs and Cody is left alone in the dark once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2 hair 2 dye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>pete Thinks About His Feelings, flirts profusely, and gets a new look!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Pete’s fucked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been thinking about it nonstop for two weeks. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not entirely sure what he was going for in the moment when he decided that tenderly brushing Cody’s hair behind his ear and letting his hand linger down the soft skin of his jaw was a normal thing to do to your roommate, but he’s pretty sure now—after fourteen full days of near-constant rumination and subsequent dissection—that he probably was going to make a move, or something as equally as insane and unwarranted. ‘Cause like, what the fuck else could it have been? Who does that? What was he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But really, it doesn’t even matter what he was thinking when it happened. If he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to kiss Cody is neither here nor there, because the truth is this: now, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>certain </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he wants to kiss Cody. Presently. On an ongoing basis. Is it as a result of his obsessing over why he was so inexplicably tender in that single moment? A mutation of a single freak display of exhaustion-fueled autopilot that he would have never otherwise experienced if he hadn’t been so fucking hung up on a two-second interaction? Or were the fumes of that weird new tea Zee gifted him secretly working their way into his bloodstream and chemically opening up the part of his brain that kept his—</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’re definitely feelings—for Cody locked up tight behind a wall of repression?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But again, that line of discussion is missing the point entirely. Pete’s already blasted well past looking for answers. He wants to kiss Cody. Simple as that. What he needs now is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>solution. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>They haven’t talked about it, of course.</span> <span>Pete got weird and self-aware and shattered the moment, and unlike their post magical battle rituals, these bits of glass have been extracted separately, behind closed doors and with a distinct lack of Chinese food. But this metaphor only works if there actually </span><em><span>was </span></em><span>a moment and Pete’s insane brain isn’t just blowing things completely out of proportion. For all he knows, Cody might have forgotten the entire thing altogether. He hasn’t brought it up—not the tea, not the tender caress between bros, and not the hair thing, either. It’s not like he’s asked Pete to braid his hair again or mentioned it when he’s pulling his hair back into a bun, scowl on his face as it gets in his way—which, for the record, happens a lot more than Pete is able to deal with.  </span></p><p>
  <span>The way his tongue pokes out between his teeth when he’s focusing on getting all the bumps out is </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute, </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody doesn’t ask, so Pete doesn’t offer. He’s working on impulse control. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want, </span>
  </em>
  <span>privately, when he’s lying in bed in the morning thinking about how the chill seeping in through his poorly insulated walls would be so much more bearable with someone laying beside him. Maybe he’d wake up a bit shivery and then curl into Cody’s side, revelling in the appreciative sigh he gets when he runs his fingers through his long, tangled hair, sweeping the blue strands behind his ear as he hums a gravelly </span>
  <em>
    <span>good morning </span>
  </em>
  <span>and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even know if Cody is queer. And while the septum ring and the fact that he honest to god introduces himself as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Night Angel </span>
  </em>
  <span>are good signs, neither of Pete’s past few romantic entanglements ended—or began, or even really chugged along through the middle—all too favourably, so for the good of both of them (and the Dream Team, and the Unsleeping City, and the whole world, probably) he should just cool it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So of course, Cody makes it very, very hard for him to cool it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s three weeks after the near-maybe-kiss-and-miss and one week after Pete officially accepted and decided to ignore his feelings, when he forgets to ignore his feelings.</span>
</p><p><span>There was a lead on a Gladiator thing earlier in the week that involved the gang getting into a brawl with some umbra-influenced ferry operators (who were all too happy to violate safety protocols and haul people overboard mid-fight)</span> <span>that ended in a stream of very furious showers which had left Cody’s blue streak looking as pale as Pete had ever seen it. It was pretty—almost pastel, in a sort of electric way that </span><em><span>really </span></em><span>brought out Cody’s eyes—but all too prep for Cody’s tastes, of course. So when Pete came home from his evening walk that Sunday night, he wasn’t too surprised to see Cody patting bleach onto his hair in the second floor bathroom.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Hey dude,” he starts, some sad part of his brain going </span>
  <em>
    <span>dude, nice, yeah that’s platonic </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the background, “You doing blue again or do you switch it up sometimes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody exhales curtly, a silent laugh. “No way, man. Blue is like, my </span>
  <em>
    <span>brand.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He flips some hair over his part, patting his brush down at the roots expertly. Pete watches as his smirk dissolves into a frown. “Like, wait—no, that’s too corporate. It’s—fuck, whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete holds back a smile. Fuck, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fond. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“No, it’s okay. I get it.” He nods as Cody shrugs and turns to head up the stairs to his room, foot poised above the first step before Cody starts talking again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, I, uh—oh, you’re gone. Fuckin’, stupid,” he mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>rush </span>
  </em>
  <span>back to the doorway like he’s a Nicholas Sparks character being asked by their tearful lover to stay, but, well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry?” He’s only a little bit out of breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, I just—I thought you said something?”</span>
</p><p><span>“Oh.” Cody puts the brush down and starts worrying his gloved hands through the length of his hair, eyes downcast. “I, uh. There was like, a sale? On Manic Panic at the drugstore, so. They had like—it’s fuckin’ stupid, but.” He says the next part nearly under his breath, words jumbled together so that Pete has to strain to hear them at all: “They had Deep Purple Dream,</span> <span>which like, Nod, y’know?” Pete blinks. “I thought you—and like, that time, uh, before when you were. Um.” He gestures vaguely to his hair before muttering on, “And you were like, ‘I’ve always kinda wanted to dye my hair’—”</span></p><p>
  <span>Pete scoffs, interjecting, “I do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound like that.” The smile is evident in his voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His brain screams at him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that time before! He remembers!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever! Whatever, it’s dumb, whatever.” Cody barrels on, blushing—holy shit, yeah, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>blushing—</span>
  </em>
  <span>furiously as he turns back to face the mirror, avoiding Pete’s gaze.</span>
</p><p><span>It takes a second, but eventually his brain catches up beyond the fact of </span><em><span>Cody was thinking about when I braided his hair </span></em><span>and registers the rest of the information hanging onto those sentence fragments, and he realizes that, oh, yeah. Yeah, one hundred percent, he’s fully going to let this man turn his head into a walking advertisement for fucking, grape slushies or whatever. He is absolutely going to let that happen. So much for cooling it, huh?</span> </p><p>
  <span>Pete accepts his fate with swiftness and with grace (which he’s going to count as Doing Good And Going With The Flow, not as Lack Of Impulse Control, thank you very much!) and climbs up onto the bathtub and cracks open the window nestled into the corner of the ceiling, then sits himself down at the great protest of his hips and knees and says, plainly, “I’ll wait my turn, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, he must reiterate: </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes twenty minutes of poorly suppressed yearning for the bleach to work itself into Cody’s hair, Pete spending the whole time sat in the bathtub with his legs hanging over the edge and watching Cody idly work through a game on his phone. It would have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>easier to ignore how cute the way his nose scrunches and unscrunches—minutely, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—if Pete hadn’t realized it was cute in the first place, but, well, here he is. It’s annoying, even the inane and bothersome things he’d have grimaced at just three weeks prior are like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>endearing </span>
  </em>
  <span>now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the exaggerated, obnoxious grunt that Cody lets out as he uses the counter to pull himself up from the floor when his timer goes off, or the fact that he turns both taps on full blast to rinse out his hair instead of using a moderate stream like a normal person. He has to bite back so many little comments, his brain reverting to elementary school crush behaviour every time Cody so much as sniffles. He feels like a kid again, desperate to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>just so he can know where he stands with the world, whether that means he’s normal or a pathetic freak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing, though, is that no matter what he does or what he says, he still can’t get the read and figure out what Cody thinks of him. They’re friends, sure, but like—is Cody just tolerating him because they’re roommates and Pete is his in to the Unsleeping City, or does he actually like helping Pete pick out weird seasoning combos for their popcorn lunch on Fridays? It’s not like Pete’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>throwing </span>
  </em>
  <span>himself at Cody, but he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been catching himself following him around like a puppy these past couple of weeks. It’s not his fault if the minutiae of low-level retail management and mall rivalries are kind of interesting—which is why he’s willing to ignore the thud of his heart in his chest and listen to Cody reminisce about his old job—as bros and nothing more—as Cody works the blue dye into the brassy, bleached parts of his hair and waits for it to set.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway,” Cody says a speedy twenty minutes later as the alarm starts to sound once more, “That’s why I haven’t been allowed at the food court Cinnabon since 2015.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn,” Pete whistles. “That’s honestly pretty bullshit, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody gives him a pointed look like </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know, right, </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he turns the tap on full blast again, lowering his head into the sink. “Mall security are just as fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>ass</span>
  </em>
  <span> as real cops.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete laughs to himself as Cody turns away, then lets it melt into a smile, shameless in privacy. For as closed off as Cody makes himself—or </span>
  <em>
    <span>tries </span>
  </em>
  <span>to make himself—he really is so goddamned easy to talk to. A beat passes and then he hums in idle, belated agreement as the water starts to run blue. “Is that gonna stain?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” Cody turns his head and smacks it on the tap in the process and shouts, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and immediately turns red, shutting off the water and wringing out his hair angrily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cutely.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Shit, sorry. But uh, no. Might stain your bedsheets, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Pete’s turn to flush. “Hhh—what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like…” Cody trails off, not really getting it, until: “Fuck, like, when we do </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>hair.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Your </span>
  </em>
  <span>hair might stain </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> bedsheets, um, purple, when it’s dyed. Obviously it wouldn’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>hair staining </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>sheets, because then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>would be in </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>bed and that would be, like, that would be weird, haha, ‘cause like—I mean obviously I don’t know what fuckin’ colour your sheets are, again that would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird—</span>
  </em>
  <span>but like when </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> put </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> head on your pillow and if you move around and all that—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, right, yeah, sorry.” Pete decides to cut him off before Cody digs a hole so deep he can’t climb out. But then, because he’s stupid and decides, in this moment, that he likes seeing Cody blush, he throws him a shovel anyway. “I think I remember how bedsheets work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, of course. I mean not of—holy fuck, I’m gonna stop talking now.” He squats down to rummage under the sink and eventually pulls out a blowdryer that looks like it’s seen much, much better days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete mulls over the choice between stirring the pot even more and cutting the poor dude a break, and eventually decides to hold up his three-quarter full nalgene and announce, “I’m gonna go refill my water bottle, I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Cool. Whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete tries to give himself a talking to in the kitchen, he really does. It’s not his fault that Cody just makes it so damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, yours isn’t gonna be as like, neon as this,” he assures once Pete comes back into the bathroom, holding up the streak that is substantially more electric now that it’s nearly dry. The smile on his face says that he is completely recovered from his earlier mortification, and the tilt of his chin says </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is a challenge.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Deep purple dream isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite </span>
  </em>
  <span>as hardcore as celestine blue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete crosses his arms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alright, fine.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “You saying I’m not hardcore?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody snorts so hard he nearly whacks himself in the head with the blowdryer. “Dude, you like, drink tea before bed. You’re like—mediumcore, at best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me,” Pete scoffs, “I’m the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vox Phantasma </span>
  </em>
  <span>of </span>
  <em>
    <span>New York City. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s at </span>
  <em>
    <span>least </span>
  </em>
  <span>medium rare… core.” It hangs in the air for a second before Cody snorts again (it shouldn’t be cute, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t be, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but alas), swiftly turning back to the mirror in an attempt to hide his smile. Pete feels an absurd amount of pride rush through him. “Besides, everyone knows medium-rare is the best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, personally, I like my steak as bloody as possible, so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete holds back a snort. “That might be the most on-brand thing you’ve ever said, Night Angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody titters at that, swallowing weirdly as he turns sets the blowdryer down on the counter, clattering loudly in the sudden absence of noise filling the room. “Well, uh—” he stutters. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Flustered? Oh yeah, he’s flustered. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I, uh—rare is better. It is. I cook a fuckin’, </span>
  <em>
    <span>awesome</span>
  </em>
  <span> rare steak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll, like, make it for you sometime. When I—groceries.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Pete were anywhere near capable of attempting a reply, he would have choked on the words. Images of candlelight and intimate, hushed conversations flood his mind, ridiculous both in form and pure nature of existence. He pulls it together right before Cody’s about to backtrack—and okay, he guesses he can tell Cody’s microexpressions apart now—and spits out a not altogether lame reply. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you come through that front door with a bag of groceries,” he quips, shaky exhale slipping through a smirk before he softens, stomach-flipping earnest: “But yeah, I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p><span>Cody flushes red, a perfect palette of primary colours paired with the yellow of the wall he’s pressed against and the shocking blue of his hair. </span><em><span>Fuck, </span></em><span>Pete thinks, </span><em><span>too far, too far. He thinks you mean like a date and you totally misread fucking </span></em><span>everything </span><em><span>and</span></em> <em><span>he isn’t interested in you that way and—</span></em></p><p>
  <span>“Cool, yeah, whatever. Cool.” And now this is a different kind of smile altogether, one Pete hasn’t seen yet—lilting and shy, shining brighter in his downcast eyes than anywhere else. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, okay, okay. Maybe there </span>
  </em>
  <span>is </span>
  <em>
    <span>something there. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pete does all he can not to have a wild magic surge and start like, actually floating or something equally as cartoonish. “If I eat your uncooked steak do I still have to be mediumcore or do I get to graduate to hardcore?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody rolls his eyes but the smile is still there as he grumbles a “Shut up,” rummaging through the drugstore bag for the second set of hair dye. “You still wanna do this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody’s eyes flit over at the immediacy of Pete’s answer—</span>
  <em>
    <span>cool it, dude, cool it—</span>
  </em>
  <span>but he doesn’t comment further; he just starts mixing the bleach and developer together into a white paste, just as pungent as the one he had put on his own hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The application itself is largely uneventful, Pete perched on the edge of the tub with his back ramrod straight as Cody crowds into his space, one foot on the tile and one inside the tub as he works through the layers of Pete’s hair. It’s methodical, determined—Pete can feel him making distinct sections with it, as precise and practiced as just about anything he’s ever seen Cody do, and yet he’s still chatting idly with Pete as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete only has two thoughts as Cody finishes up, just fifteen or so minutes later: one, he should talk to Sofia and see if she has any leads on salon jobs in the city, and two, </span>
  <em>
    <span>god </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wishes he had longer hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Cody, oblivious to Pete mourning the loss of contact,  goes back to the counter to fetch a clear plastic bag from the pile of supplies, shaking it out deftly to fill it with air. The way he walks it over to Pete makes him think, just for a second, that Cody is about to go all </span>
  <em>
    <span>Criminal Minds</span>
  </em>
  <span> on him—and apparently Pete is going to let that happen too, because he makes no move to scramble away when Cody starts fashioning it to his head (okay, not his face, </span>
  <em>
    <span>cool) </span>
  </em>
  <span>and tying it off at the nape of his neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a bag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why is it a bag? I don’t fuckin’ know, dude. Why am I the chosen one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete swallows down the automatic </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re not the chosen one </span>
  </em>
  <span>that forms on his tongue, and while he’s at it he grabs hold of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, you’re cute </span>
  </em>
  <span>threatening to creep out and pushes that down, too. Instead of all that nonsense, Pete ignores the inner happenings of his vocal tract and decides on a patient, “Why did you put a bag on my head?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Cody raises his eyebrows in an </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh </span>
  </em>
  <span>fashion, then shrugs. “Helps with the chemicals and shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why didn’t you need a bag?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins. “‘Cause I’m the chosen one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete lets out a sound straddling the line somewhere between a sigh and a groan and reaches up to poke at the slimy mess, fingers protected now by the plastic. It feels hot, hotter than he’d expected, and only mildly disgusting. Not a bad way to keep his hands occupied so that they don’t reach out and grab Cody’s like he’s been itching to all—all night, all week, all fucking month. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna blowdry it,” Cody says then, immediately ruining Pete’s plan by stepping in front of him—chest parallel to Pete’s face, fantastic—and turning on the hot air to, in his words, </span>
  <em>
    <span>help the chemicals and shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pete closes his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Cody exhale, a ghost of a laugh. “It’s like—it’s weirdly nice, right?” Pete bites his tongue and nods. “When I was a kid, I used to get in trouble for taking too long to go to the bathroom—” Pete opens one eye and Cody peels the blowdryer away, holding both hands up. “Not like, like, in a weird way. Fuck. Like, they thought I was, uh, roaming the school grounds or ditching class or shit. Like when I was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>kid </span>
  </em>
  <span>kid, like elementary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, and like—they were fuckin’ stupid, ‘cause the mall wasn’t even within walking distance to my school so I don’t know why they’d think I was ditching class. But anyway. I used to, um. I used to just sit in front of the hand dryers and let it blow on my face ‘cause the warm air was so nice.” He moves the airstream directly into Pete’s face, just to make the point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete basks in it for a second before he opens his eyes—dry and blurry, now, but he’s pretty sure he can still make out Cody smiling. “That’s cute as hell, dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile drops. “It’s not—I’m not—” he stutters and Pete’s brain goes </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes you are </span>
  </em>
  <span>before Cody starts up again with, “It’s like, hardcore! I was training for being in, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which—I’m the Jersey Devil now so I’m sure it’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>relevant experience </span>
  </em>
  <span>any day now, and—you can’t tell anyone I told you that shit,” he finishes sternly, pulling the streak of blue over his face like a protective curtain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t,” Pete promises. And then, just to test something out: “Night Angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blush spreads over his face again and Cody just </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmfs </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he fixes his eyes on the top of Pete’s head once more, wielding the blowdryer with laser focus. They continue on in this fashion for some time, quiet. A heavy, gummy tension replaces the effortless conversation from just minutes ago, any attempt at a back-and-forth caught and suspended in the odd, dreamlike quality of the air around them, the entire room charged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s undeniable, now. Inevitable, even, if Pete wants to be presumptuous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minutes later it’s time to wash out the bleach and Cody is tipping Pete’s head back over the edge of the tub, running the water from the showerhead over his fingers until it warms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Considerate </span>
  </em>
  <span>is maybe not a word that a random passerby might assign to Cody on their first go, or even their second or third, probably, but Pete can’t stop his mind from screaming it as Cody begins to gently run his fingers through his hair, quietly muttering to let him know if the water is too hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pressure on his scalp is a little bit insane, in short. He thinks he might mumble out a </span>
  <em>
    <span>no it’s good </span>
  </em>
  <span>regarding the water as the uneven ceiling tiles fade out of view, eyes falling shut in bliss at the combination of contact, but he can’t be sure. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>sure, however, that he hears Cody chuckle softly to himself over the sound of the water, but he can’t bring himself to be too embarrassed about it. And it’s not like Cody was all that unbothered when </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>was sitting with Pete’s hands in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Yeah, okay, that was also a thing. And, come to think of it, so was the fact that he’d seen more of Cody in the common areas of the house in the past couple of weeks, and at the store, just to visit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, now it’s sort of fucking obvious. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete cracks an eye open and catches the softest, most fond look on Cody’s face for just one second before he blinks, clenching his jaw tight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, might as well. Pete lets his eyes flick down to Cody’s lips, incredibly unsubtle, then shrugs as much he can with his shoulders pressed up against the tub. “Nothing,” he repeats, letting his eyes close again, leaning back into the press of Cody’s fingers working out the bleach at the base of his head.</span>
</p><p><span>Cody swears under his breath, too low for Pete to really hear. He holds back another laugh and peeks an eye open to see if he can make any of it out when Cody shakes his head, eyes shut tight, and the movement sends a shock of blue hair slipping out from behind Cody’s ear and floating down</span> <span>onto Pete’s cheek, soft and featherlike. It sets his skin alight and his hand twitches up before he can think better of it.</span></p><p>
  <span> He’s acutely aware that it’s the exact same scene as he reaches an arm up—it feels as though he’s watching himself move in slow motion, like wading through water—to tuck the strand away where it belongs, again. Cody’s eyes flick down to track the movement and Pete feels his hand tighten in his hair.  </span>
</p><p><span>The stream of water on Pete’s head falls sideways, distracted. Cody apologizes and it comes out like a whisper and Pete feels the déjà vu</span> <span>catch in his throat like a gasp. He’s sure now: </span><em><span>he feels it too. He </span></em><span>felt </span><em><span>it, too. </span></em><span>Cody’s lips fall open as Pete’s hand brushes the shell of his ear, fingers bumping carefully along the piercings. In the far, far recesses of Pete’s brain there is a voice going </span><em><span>god that’s hot </span></em><span>at that, but it is a whisper in the howling wind of whatever’s going on in the forefront of his mind, big and shaky and intoxicating. The hair slips out of his hand and his fingers skirt the edge of Cody’s jaw, not for the first time.</span></p><p>
  <span>But this time, he holds steady. There is bleach dripping down his neck and soaking into the collar of his shirt as Cody blinks down at him, expression that same suspension between pained and hopeful, face cut by buzzing fluorescents instead of distant kitchen static and shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, he knows what he wants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Night Angel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turn off the water.” It sounds more like a confession than a request but Cody does so anyway, wordlessly setting the showerhead into the tub and reaching blindly for the handle—eyes never straying from Pete’s, captured—and shutting off the stream as asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A breath of a moment later, Pete surges up and presses their lips together, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cody’s other hand flies up to Pete’s face almost immediately, pulling him in closer as Pete sits up and slides his hand down to Cody’s waist, desperate as his heart pounds inside of his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete can feel Cody smiling as he moves to deepen the kiss, and it is at this precise moment that he remembers, dizzyingly, that Cody has a tongue piercing. “Oh,” he mumbles into his mouth, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh.” </span>
  </em>
  <span> And Cody just </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs </span>
  </em>
  <span>at that, low and endearing and wonderful, the sound of it reverberating over Pete’s skin like a tremor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could not tell you whether it was seconds or minutes or hours before they finally separated, but as their lips come apart Pete is breathless, skin on fire under Cody’s gaze, foreheads leant together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody swipes a thumb over his cheek, quick and tender, like the soft touch of a fleeting dream, and Pete lets out a pained “Yeah,” before leaning in once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s softer, less rushed, this time. There’s space for Pete to think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh my god this is so nice why is he such a good kisser how come this is so good even though I’m eye-level with the toilet </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead of just going </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy shit it’s happening it’s happening it’s happening. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Their lips move together like choreography, effortless and charming in that way that can only be achieved through hours of practice, each and every step in time, in their </span>
  <em>
    <span>bones. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s as easy as reaching into Nod, endless magic sitting silky and malleable at Pete’s fingertips, ebbing and flowing through him with each breath. It feels like </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, of course. This is where I’m supposed to be. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It feels like floating, skin effervescent under Cody’s touch, searing through his jawline like—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, wait a fucking second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, okay,” Pete says, lips brushing against Cody’s as he speaks, urgent once more, “Okay. Okay okay okay—this is—okay, this is. This is—” their lips connect again, inevitable, “—this is, fuck. It’s—” another kiss “—burning so bad. I want—I want this to keep happening but also—oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The skin under Cody’s hand is tingling,</span>
  <em>
    <span> violently,</span>
  </em>
  <span> nerves alight not with romance or butterflies or dreaming, but chemical reactions. “Okay, we have to—Cody, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>bleach.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody pulls back, looks at him for an entire second, time suspended as he tilts his head, Pete shamelessly zeroing in on how swollen his lips are before, finally—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cody springs back fully, nearly toppling over in the process. “Sorry, sorry, shit, fuck—” He grabs the plastic bag from where he discarded it on the tile beside them and uses the clean parts to scrape the bleach—direct nape of neck to cheek pipeline, courtesy of Cody’s own hands—off Pete’s face, somehow frantic and gentle all at once. If Pete wasn’t so focused on the burning, he might have felt his stomach flip. “Fucking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>god, I was straight up rubbing it into your face like makeup or some shit and it’s—god, I’m so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m sorry man, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody’s speech is abruptly cut off by Pete dragging him down into another kiss, quick and firm. “Stop apologizing. I’m fine with chemical burns if it means I finally get to fucking kiss you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody blinks. “Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if I can kiss you and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>have chemical burns,” he pauses to smile as he wipes a watery smudge of bleach from Cody’s hairline, almost undoubtedly acquired secondhand through Pete’s own forehead— “then that would be preferable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” He wipes the last of the purple sludge off Pete’s face and reaches for the showerhead once more, then stops. “Did you say </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete’s heart flutters uneasily at the direct confrontation, so blunt and direct. Part of him flips back into his old self, lie already poised and ready on the tip of his tongue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A little voice in Pete’s head says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell him it was a joke, sabotage it! </span>
  </em>
  <span>And then he tells his brain, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck, no! </span>
  </em>
  <span>because that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking stupid </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he’s Pete Conlan and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserves good things.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>And no matter how much any normal, conventional person of sound mind might disagree, Cody Night Angel Walsh is a </span><em><span>damn</span></em> <em><span>good thing.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>Pete takes a deep breath. “I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hangs in the air for a terrifying second, unretractable and horrifyingly </span>
  <em>
    <span>true. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pete feels nauseous only half from the fumes and he starts taking inventory of all possible exits (the window, too high up and not wide enough, probably; and the door, much more doable but with the obstacle of dodging Cody’s body half-draped over him first) until Cody finally exhales, the rest of the world exhaling along with him as the world’s shyest smile ghosts his lips.</span>
</p><p><span>“I’ve wanted to kiss you for like, fucking </span><em><span>ever, </span></em><span>man.”</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>Pete feels the hopes and dreams of eight million people explode inside his chest. “Yeah?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Cody rolls his eyes. “Yeah.” He looks down, biting his lip for a long second before smiling to himself and  grabbing Pete’s hands from his lap and holding them in his own. “Wanted to do this, too,” he mutters, running his thumb over the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ASMA </span>
  </em>
  <span>on Pete’s knuckles. “Like—on the, the fuckin’ street, and stuff.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete blinks. The implication is not lost on him. “You wanna hold my hand on the street?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Cody says, eyes wide and afraid but unwavering, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete takes a moment to push down the bubble of a sob threatening the back of his throat, and says, carefully, “Well, if you’re gonna be seen in public with me, you better finish dyeing my hair so I can look half as cool as you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile blooms on Cody’s face and he shrugs, nonchalant. “Listen, Vox Phantasma, you’re like. Insanely fucking cool, all on your own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And besides, we kind of have a like, Naruto and Sasuke light and dark aesthetic thing going on right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete barks a laugh. “I mean, I’m assuming my hair is yellow right now, so you’re not wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s totally yellow. Here—” Cody lets go of Pete’s hands—a tragic loss, truly—and buries his hands into Pete’s hair, swiping upwards so that it stands up straight. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Now</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re Naruto.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a look of pure adoration and wonder on Cody’s face as he observes his handiwork, and Pete is helpless to do anything but kiss it off him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Impulse control? No, you have the wrong number, we don’t do that here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When he leans back, he squares Cody with a look. “You know I am committed to the purple though, right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>Cody gets back to work washing out the rest of the bleach and working the dye in, sun dipping below the horizon and turning their tiny rectangle of window pitch black by the time Pete emerges from the bathroom with a head the same colour as his magic. The violent shudder of his nerves is still ongoing beneath his skin, but when he wakes up the next morning enveloped in warmth with a swath of celestine blue</span> <span>fanned over his chest, he knows that chemicals have nothing to do with it.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And if it’s three weeks later and Pete’s sheets still have a distinct indigo tinge after three scalding hot washes, well. He supposes that’s alright, then. He always did like the way blue and purple looked together, after all.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lol GAY!!!!! feel free to leave a kudos and a comment if you enjoyed (🥺) or come hang out with me <a href="https://gilears.tumblr.com/">@gilears</a> on tumblr!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>